Factotum
by NathalyAnne
Summary: Violet Beckett moves into 221C not expecting anything out of the ordinary. How wrong she was. Although her new neighbor may truly be a sociopath, Violet knew enough about people to know that didn't make him any less human. She also knew enough about people to know Sherlock Holmes wasn't the worst person she'd met. Not even close. (Heads Up: I won't be updating this story regularly)
1. Meetings

Moving had never been pleasant. The whole process was arduous, taking far too much time and entirely unfulfilling since it was never actually finished. Violet had just moved two boxes out of her old closet, untouched since she'd placed them there the last time she moved, and shoved them to the back of the top shelf of her new closet, not to be thought of again until she repeated the whole process over again.

Violet wasn't daft, though; she was all too aware of the fact she caused these problems herself. She knew everything would be easier if she'd just organize everything or take the time to get rid of the things she barely used. The problem with that, however, was most of what she owned was books. Hundreds and hundreds of books now crammed into countless cardboard boxes. She'd much rather move again than get rid of her books.

Of course, the books caused another problem. As a fairly modernized woman, Violet liked to think herself capable of anything she put her mind to, but that belief couldn't really do anything about reality, no matter how much she willed it to. Her five-foot two stature and admittedly noodle-like arms didn't really stand a chance against her book-filled boxes. It was as if each word printed on the pages weighed a pound each. She knew that was impossible, but she nodded her head adamantly at the thought anyway. She'd always had a flair for the dramatic.

"Come on, Vi." She grunted to herself through gritted teeth, huffing and puffing as she leaned over the largest box of all, the last one left in the moving van, "You put it in here, you should be able to get it out. Don't be a baby."

She tucked a few loose, golden blonde curls back underneath her knitted cap and planted her feet more securely on the pavement. Her breath was like smoke in the cold, February air as she steeled herself, gripped the sides of the box, and heaved with all her might. She grunted loudly, begging it to at least budge, but it didn't. Defeated, she slammed her hands down on the floor of the van and threw her head back with a frustrated groan. A few passersby slowed down to look at her but she paid them no mind, too busy glaring at the stupid box in front of her.

Her ears homed in on the voice drifting out from the old brick building she was stationed in front of. Her new building. 221 Baker Street. Through her peripherals, she could see her sweet, new landlady standing just inside of the open doorway.

"Oh, Sherlock dear, get down here and help would you?" Mrs. Hudson called over her shoulder and presumably up the stairs where Violet knew her neighbor lived, "She could use your help. It looks like she's struggling."

Violet groaned and rested her forehead on top of the box. She was embarrassed. It wasn't like her to admit when she was out of her depth and even less like her to admit to needing help. Plus, she'd never met her upstairs neighbor. Mrs. Hudson had had a lot to tell her about him, well, _warn_ her about him really, and Violet was somewhat anxious about meeting him, especially now under these circumstances.

"Sherlock!"

Violet turned to see Mrs. Hudson throw her hands down in exasperation. The small dish towel she was clutching fluttered in the air as she spun around and swiftly climbed the stairs behind her. Violet momentarily thought about going in and asking this Sherlock fellow for help herself, but the noise from inside changed her mind. What sounded like clanging pots and shattering glass echoed down, followed by the deep rumblings of an angry, masculine voice. Violet raised her eyebrows but didn't lift her head off the box.

"Get down there and help!" Mrs. Hudson called out, sounding like she was descending the stairs, "I know your mother raised you to be a gentleman so act like one!"

"Don't bring my mother into this." The man said gruffly, "Besides, the idea of 'gentleman' is so arbitrary I find it both useless and unnecessary for me to endeavor to be one."

Although the man's voice was cold, holding an almost unsettling lack of emotion, Violet couldn't help but smile at his ridiculous words. She disagreed with him, sure, knowing herself to be the sort of person who found the idea of gentlemen and ladies romantic, but he wasn't entirely wrong. There was no fixed definition of 'gentleman' anymore, no true customs to follow in their society now, and it amused Violet tremendously that this man pointed that out so blatantly.

"I'll have none of that, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson scolded, clearly not as entertained as Violet was, "That poor girl has been struggling to unload her things for the better part of half an hour and you are perfectly capable of helping her out."

"I hardly see why I should be punished for her lack of foresight." Sherlock commented. Violet blushed at his words and straightened as he came into view at the base of the stairs.

She didn't know what she expected, but he definitely wasn't it. He was incredibly tall and lean, a fact emphasized dramatically by the black Belstaff coat which covered him, brushing his shins as he moved. The moment she saw him, his eyes fixed on her. She felt uncomfortable under his gaze. It was like he was… reading her. He stepped onto the sidewalk and walked toward her almost like a predator, a calculating look on his face, his posture tall and elegant as his eyes bore into her, a striking cerulean color. They made his angular features sharper and his dark curls darker.

Violet wouldn't admit it outloud but she was intimidated. She did her best not to shrink under his scrutiny, but didn't think she did a very good job because Mrs. Hudson stuck her head out the door to yell after him.

"Do try to be nice to her, will you, Sherlock?" She scolded, seeming almost exhausted, "We want her to stay."

"Speak for yourself." He muttered back without taking his eyes from Violet. They flit over her quickly, taking in… something. Violet wasn't sure what. He came to stand in front of her, his hands deep in his pockets as he stared intensely down at her.

Pushing her nervousness and, what she considered premature, assumptions about this man aside, Violet turned toward him and smiled genuinely. He didn't smile back, didn't even move at all really. Violet didn't let that phase her, though, and kept smiling.

"You're Sherlock, then." She said pleasantly, pushing some more curls back underneath her hat and behind her ear.

"Obviously." He drawled, "Mrs. Hudson's been screeching my name for the last five minutes. Hardly a deduction."

Violet cocked her head to the side. Sherlock watched her in an almost bored manner and her lips quirked up the tiniest bit.

"You're funny, you know that?"

He looked startled.

"What?"

Violet giggled and rubbed her hands together, trying to warm them up.

"I said you're funny."

Sherlock hummed deep in his throat, not amused but curious. He leaned away from her the smallest bit so he wasn't towering over her anymore, and began assessing her all over again. Violet stood there calmly, equally as curious by him as he seemed to be by her. She watched his eyes as they danced over her, watched how his eyebrows pinched ever so slightly in the middle, how his bow shaped lips stayed in a constant line.

He was actually quite handsome.

With that realization, Violet coughed lightly to herself and looked away, feeling a tad uncomfortable as her cheeks heated up.

"Well," she chirped, "since Mrs. Hudson forced you out here, would you mind helping me with this box? It's a little too heavy for me, it seems."

"Yes. It is." He said, narrowing his focus on her arms and legs, "Your muscle mass is exceedingly low. 22% at the most I'd say. Barely healthy even for your stature."

Violet laughed humorlessly, averting her eyes and trying her best not to get upset.

"Yeah, I know." She picked at a loose thread in her gloves, "I'm going to do my best to change it though. New Year's resolution and all that."

Sherlock made a disbelieving sound in the back of his throat, "I wouldn't count on it. Only 8% of people keep their New Year's resolutions and even less when changing diet or exercise."

Violet chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, mulling over his words before smiling.

"Well, then." She glanced up at him, her grin seeming to confuse him, "If only 8% of people keep their resolution, I'll change mine to not keeping my resolution." She tapped her temple with her finger, "Reverse psychology. That raises my chances, statistically."

She continued to giggle, even more so when Sherlock simply continued to stare at her.

"Come on." She said, waving him toward the back of the van, "The quicker we get this box inside, the quicker I can warm up and start unpacking..."

Sherlock picked up the box before she had even finished her sentence and was halfway through the door as she trailed off. With a small sigh and a shake of her head, she locked up the moving van and followed after the tall, abrasive man she'd let walk off with her things.

Closing the door to the building behind her, Violet stopped in the hallway to stomp the snow off her boots. It melted into the doormat quickly, the flat was quite toasty; a fact Violet was exceedingly grateful for. She only paused there in the hall for a second more before noticing her flat door was cracked open. She quickly scampered in, tugging her wool poncho off over her head and tossing it on the coat stand she'd placed by the door earlier.

"Would you like some tea?" She threw the question over her shoulder as she stuffed her gloves into the pockets of her poncho. When there was no response, she spun around and folded her arms over her chest, amused, as she watched Sherlock.

He stood in the middle of her run down living room. The movers had delivered her furniture earlier that morning, but it did little to hide the peeling wallpaper and overall dreariness of the flat. Sherlock's eyes jumped from the cracks in the ceiling, to the dripping tap in the kitchen, down to the practically bursting cardboard boxes lining the walls, over the dusty furniture, then back to the ceiling. Mrs. Hudson had told Violet enough about him for her to know what he was doing.

"Find anything?" She smiled a little as she sat down on the arm of her couch.

Sherlock looked around for another moment before turning to face her fully. Although his face still held the indifference she'd come to realize was normal for him, his eyes held a glint of knowing which hadn't been there before. Violet almost raised her brows at the sight, but settled with a small smile when Sherlock walked toward her.

"Everything of interest." He stated confidently, an arrogant tone lacing his words. Violet did raise her brow at that.

"Do tell, Mr. Holmes." She was curious now.

"Based on the chalk stains on your sleeves, the stacks of essays in your bag," He pointed to said bag which lay on her dining room table, "and the copious amounts of short story collections in your library, I know you're a professor."

Violet nodded in approval. She wasn't surprised though, that wasn't too hard to notice. Sherlock pressed on though, barely even stopping to breathe.

"Also based on your library, you teach English of some sort. Your young age and position at a university tell me you're of higher than average intelligence, you graduated upper schooling very early." He looked her over for a moment, "Fifteen I'd say. Yes. Graduated at fifteen or sixteen, at the top of your class, and therefore went on to university to earn multiple degrees in more than one field. Not just English and not just the arts."

He paused for a moment and Violet watched as he opened a particular cardboard box with his foot.

"There are small chemical stains in the corner of this box, so you either studied chemistry or some sort of forensics." He leaned over a little to peer at the contents before nodding to himself, "Forensics. By the fingerprinting kit."

Now, Violet was a little impressed. He'd noticed the barely there stains on that box. She'd been carrying it around with her for a little over a month and hadn't cared enough to notice. She was about to tell him he was right but he continued on.

"Based on the fact you don't own a car but do own several pairs of expensive running shoes, I know walking is your prefered mode of travel. Take that and counter in the location of this flat as well as the degrees offered by each university in London, it's most probable you work at University College London."

Violet nodded quickly. She was quite proud of that fact. The smile on her face slipped a little, though, when she saw Sherlock's eyes narrow. He walked swiftly toward her, standing almost so that their shoes touched. She had to crane her neck to look at him, though it wasn't like he cared, he was too busy deducing, or, as she was quickly noticing, showing off.

"This flat is barely liveable." He stated, his eyes boring into her, "Mrs. Hudson hasn't rented it out for years due to how expensive it is to renovate. Any normal person would steer clear of a place like this but you seem unbothered by moving somewhere in such a state. I'd say you're used to untidiness, but your overall personality, profession, and educational record demand a certain level of order. By eliminating that, the only answer is that you have some money to your name. A small fortune, based on the fact you picked here to live rather than a nicer, more accessible flat, but a fortune nonetheless."

Now, Violet was speechless. He'd gotten that simply from the fact she'd rented the flat. He was either incredibly, unbelievably lucky, or incredibly, unbelievably brilliant. She hoped it was the latter.

"Now where'd the fortune come from?" Sherlock asked rhetorically, tilting his head a little to the side and allowing himself to smile. It wasn't warm in the least. He was building up to something and Violet suddenly found herself becoming nervous.

"Young women are often glued to their cell phones." He said, "I myself use mine an ardent amount, often checking it multiple times an hour and researching for my cases. However, in the ten minutes I observed you from my window when you first arrived and the twenty minutes we have been forced to be together, there have been no alerts or notification of any kind. Neither have you once glanced at your phone to check it. As a young woman who just moved, you'd expect some sort of family or friend to contact you. I believe it is also courtesy to check in for these sorts of things. Pair that with the fact that you moved by yourself, with no help other than my own, it's clear you either have no family or are estranged from them, and have few if any friends."

Violet slipped her hand into her back pocket and gripped her phone in her hand. It hadn't rung all day, probably not even all week. She blinked away tears.

"Your fortune must come from deceased family members then. Most likely your parents though it could also be an aunt or uncle. However, since you haven't received communication of any kind and your pupils dilated when I mentioned your parents, I'd bet on them."

Violet swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded.

"There are coupons from the pet store down the street on your bed." Sherlock took a step back, changing the subject off her parents. Something she was grateful for, "You placed them there so you wouldn't lose them in the move, so you clearly intend to use them. You obviously do not currently have a pet, so it's fair to say you've been thinking about getting one. A dog by your lifestyle and aforementioned running shoe collection. You want a pet to stave off the crippling loneliness you too often feel. A person of your age and intellect would feel ostracized, even with family, and wouldn't easily fit in with peers. Though that is hardly surprising. Ordinary people are incessantly dull."

Violet stood there, shocked. She hadn't expected that spin, hadn't expected him to say something resembling kindness after his small monologue of her insecurities. If he saw the tears in her eyes from earlier, he didn't show it. He continued to watch her. Although she didn't know this man, she did know that, despite his cold exterior and emotionless mannerisms, he was still a man. Mrs. Hudson had described him to her as some sort of machine, a sociopath without any regard for others. Although Sherlock may truly be a sociopath, Violet knew enough about people to know that didn't make him any less human. She also knew enough about people to know Sherlock Holmes wasn't the worst person she'd met. Not even close.

Despite the still lingering tears in her eyes and the emotional rollercoaster she'd just been taken on, Violet smiled up at the imposing man before her.

"Would you like some tea?" She repeated her offer from earlier, earning her the most confused and downright lost expression she'd ever seen. Sherlock jerked back minutely like he'd received a small electric shock.

"Tea?" He asked, disbelieving.

Violet laughed, wiping the moisture from her eyes, "Yes. Tea. Ever have tea before?"

"Of course I've had tea." He scoffed, sounding more like his previous self before his face softened again, "It's just. People don't usually offer me tea after I deduce them."

"I bet." She laughed more heartily this time. It bubbled from her belly and past her lips easily, "I'm imagining broken noses on your end and a lot of imaginative name calling from the offended parties."

Sherlock smirked, "Of a wide variety, I assure you."

Violet giggled again and the two shared a small, brief smile before Sherlock sobered, folding his hands neatly behind his back. Violet continued to smile at him, finding amusement in his little mannerisms.

"So," she clapped lightly as she stood, "tea or no?"

He looked apprehensive. His eyes drifted toward the door and Violet rolled her eyes as she walked into the kitchen.

"Don't pretend like you have somewhere better to be, Sherlock."

His eyes darted back to her. She could feel his gaze on her as she filled up her teapot with water, but didn't turn to look at him. She knew already that he wasn't used to companionship, friendship even, and she didn't want to pressure him. The silence drifted on for another moment or two and Violet happily set her teapot on the stove just before the sound of a chair scraping along the ground caught her attention.

"I believe it is customary to repay someone for time spent helping you move." Sherlock declared, falling down into the seat at the table, "I'll have one cuppa then."

Violet chuckled as she retrieved her teacup set from one of the boxes in the kitchen and began to clean them.

"You're right." She said, "It is customary. Though I hope you're not here simply out of obligation. I'm certainly not serving you tea out of obligation."

The room fell quiet and Violet wondered for half a second if Sherlock had gotten up and left without her noticing, but he soon spoke.

"I see you have several Bukowski novels."

"Is that a deduction, Mr. Holmes?" Violet teased without turning.

"Simply an observation."

Violet hummed, "Which is your favorite of his?"

"Factotum." He said simply, "Though that is the only novel of his I find worth my time. Most of his work is entirely too sentimental, riddled with emotional dirge for what should be rather than what is."

Just then, the tea kettle whistled and Violet hastened to remove it from the stovetop. She dropped the tea bags in and turned to Sherlock fully. Leaning back against the counter, she finally took off the cap she'd been wearing. Her golden curls, which had previously been entirely hidden from sight, spilled out, brushing her shoulder blades and surrounding her head in a wide mane.

"Well then, in Factotum, what do you think Bukowski, or should I say Chinaski since he's the main character? What do you think Chinaski should have focused on instead? If he focused too much on what should be I mean."

Sherlock was silent. Violet assumed this was him thinking over his answer, but she quickly remembered who she was with. Sherlock didn't take long to answer anything. She looked over at him too see him staring openly at her, his eyes narrowed slightly and far off. It looked like he was lost in his mind, she could practically see the gears turning.

Smiling softly, she turned and poured the now brewed tea into two of her favorite, yellow teacups and set them on the table. One in front of Sherlock, the handle facing him if he ever emerged from that brain of his, and the other in front of the chair beside him. She gathered milk and sugar from the fridge, then her favorite novel from her bag. Great Expectations. Sherlock would most likely consider that a typically mundane preference, but she didn't care. She'd debate him on it if he ever came out of his stupor.

For now though, everything was silent. Violet sat beside the still Sherlock, folding her legs underneath her and cracking open her book. She drank her tea, perfectly content to read and wait.


	2. Grumpy, Old Dog

Brown ankle boots. Leather. Size 7. Dirt stained lining on the inside. Re-laced. Two… three years old.

Dark wash jeans tucked into boots. Excess material bunched around the knees and ankles. Ill-fitting. Bought at a department store. Fraying along the cuffs. Worn year round.

Faint blemishes on neck. Poor diet? Hormones? Anxiety?

Fingernails bitten down to the stub.

Anxiety.

Red, chapped lips. Excessive exposure to the cold. Lip-biting habit. Return to anxiety.

Brown eyes. Hickory colored. Eyeliner smudged at the corners. Light mascara. Long lashes. Meticulously plucked eyebrows.

Vain.

Blonde hair… _Golden_ blonde hair. Curly. Frizzy. No attempt made to tame it after removing the cap.

Not vain?

Clarify after gathering more evidence.

Green knitted jumper. Baggy. Faded color. Well-worn. Discoloration on the sleeves from exposure to chalk and chemicals. Loose strings and holes near the wrists. Most likely from repeatedly being pressed against the edge of a laptop while writing or grading.

Hair falls to the top of the back.

Freckles. On nose, cheeks, forehead, neck, arms. Presumably other areas as well. Extended time spent in the sun throughout childhood. Based on that and the slight south Welsh accent, she most likely lived in a rural area. Freckles also hint at higher risk of skin cancer.

Noted.

Hair is… roughly 51 centimeters long. 66 when straightened.

Sherlock was vaguely aware of someone talking nearby, but he purposefully chose to ignore whoever it was.

She had tight curls. Bright and shiny from excessive conditioning.

It was tangled near the ends. Split ends, most likely.

Her whole body was… 1.6 meters tall. Approximately. 37 centimeter shoulder width. 71 centimeter waist... 28 centimeter hair width. Proportionally, then, the hair fills… 75 percent of her overall width and 32 percent of her overall height. If he considered that to take up the same surface area as a sphere, then, proportionally, her entire surface area was actually only-

"Sherlock!"

The detective blinked. His head slowly cleared of all thoughts of blonde hair, before he turned toward the voice. Detective Inspector Lestrade stood there, hunched over the table, one brow quirked as he stared intently at Sherlock.

"Finally rejoin the land of the living, have we?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, annoyed with the man's interruption, but mostly with his presence. He was about to let loose the biting retort on his tongue when the sound of barely audible giggling got his attention. His eyes slid to his right to find the girl… Violet? Yes. Violet. She sat in the chair beside him, only her mane of hair and brown eyes visible over the top of the book she was holding. Her eyes crinkled softly at the edges and her shoulders shook with mirth as she continued to try to stifle her laugher. She was failing miserably. The sight irked him.

"He's been out of it for a while." She said, earning a wide grin from Lestrade, "I've gone through four chapters and he hasn't said a word the entire time."

Sherlock sneered then, drawing attention to himself as he leaned back in his chair, "Perhaps it was the lack of stimulating conversation."

Violet turned quickly to him, startled that he'd come out of his reverie so unexpectedly. Hurt flashed across her face. It was brief, but Sherlock caught it, of course he did, and he immediately felt something unnatural and completely foreign to him. There was a tiny, little… itch right behind his sternum. He didn't know what it was, but he wanted it to go away. Luckily, it did after a second, and he made a note in his mind to figure out what had happened later.

"Hold on." Lestrade shook his head as he turned to Violet. She was clearly frazzled at having the attention on her now, and hurried to place her book on the table so as not to seem rude. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the gesture.

"How in the world did you manage to shut Sherlock up?" Lestrade asked, awed.

Violet shrugged, her lips pulling up in a smile, "He managed it on his own, really."

Lestrade looked even more aghast.

"Sherlock was willingly silent? _This_ Sherlock?"

The dark-haired detective frowned deeply as Lestrade pointed at him, his finger near inches from his face.

"Yes. That's the one." Violet covered her mouth as she giggled.

It was Lestrade's turn to laugh now.

"Well, I don't know what you did, but I must shake your hand." He leaned over the table and Violet happily took his hand into hers. She laughed again which made Lestrade's grin widen and Sherlock's scowl deepen.

"Really, that's magnificent." Lestrade released Violet's hand to give Sherlock a mocking look, "Usually he never shuts up. No matter how much we beg him."

Violet was about to say something more, but Sherlock had had enough of their frivolous conversation. Lestrade's comments were dull at best and Violet's incessant giggling was irritating him. Without giving them another second to speak, Sherlock stood. The chair made an awful screeching sound. He was the only one not to flinch. He momentarily enjoyed the looks of discomfort on their faces before he straightened, clasped his hands behind his back, and looked at Lestrade expectantly.

"I'm assuming you came here for a reason, detective inspector," he said, earning an irritated look from the gray-haired man, "and not just to flirt with the newest resident of Baker Street."

Color bloomed on Violet's cheeks immediately.

"W-What?" Lestrade spluttered, looking horrified as he spun his gaze between Violet and Sherlock, "I wasn't flirting. Just being… friendly is-"

"Yes. I'm sure your intentions were entirely platonic." Sherlock rolled his eyes, growing more and more irritated by the second, "How's your wife, by the way? I can't imagine marital bliss if you've been sleeping on the couch for... two days in a row."

Lestrade's face fell. His shoulders slumped in embarrassment, and Sherlock suppressed a small grin of satisfaction. He was about to comment on Lestrade's obvious lack of detective skills when Violet pushed herself out of her seat. Her chair, unlike his, made no noise as she moved.

"Don't listen to him, Greg." She said, giving the man a small smile as she collected the teacups off the table. Hers drained, and Sherlock's cold and untouched. "I know you were only being kind to me."

"Thank you, Violet." Lestrade's lips quirked up at her comment. He gave Sherlock an 'I told you so' look which made Sherlock frown. He hadn't realized they were on first name basis. They must have gone through introductions while he had been in his mind palace. That bothered him. Who knew how long they were talking, or even more pressing, what it was they'd been discussing. He could only imagine the unintelligible drivel, most likely at his own expense.

With a sigh of irritation, Sherlock moved toward Lestrade, the flaps of his coat billowing out behind him.

"Let's get to what you came here for." He said, holding his hand out expectantly, "Which case has found you out of your depth this time?"

Lestrade's jaw clenched as he shot Sherlock a glare. The taller man was unmoved. He simply stretched his hand out further. Lestrade was still for a moment more, seeming to debate with himself whether he _really_ needed Sherlock, before he caved and slapped the thick manila folder he'd been holding into Sherlock's palm.

 _Of course._ Sherlock thought smugly, _Scotland Yard would be lost without me._

"Doctor Stephen Macintosh." Lestrade began with a sigh, watching as Sherlock's eyes danced over the pages in the folder, "Found dead two days ago in his home office. No apparent cause of death, no blood found at the scene and everything was in its place. So, no signs of a strugg-"

"Wrong." Sherlock interrupted, "Everything is _perfectly_ in place."

Lestrade frowned, "What does that have to do with an-"

Sherlock snatched a couple of papers from the folder and slammed them on the table.

"The bookshelf." He pointed at one of the pictures without taking his eyes off Lestrade, "These picture frames were knocked over, you can see by the drag lines in the dust, but someone carefully placed them back on the shelf."

Lestrade stared at Sherlock for a moment, looking agitated, before he sighed and picked up the photo Sherlock was pointing at. He inspected it, then let his hand fall down by his side, defeated.

"Don't make me ask."

Sherlock stood up straighter and fixed his eyes on Lestrade in what he knew was a perfectly bored expression. In truth, he was pleased, but he couldn't let Lestrade know that.

"If you think you can manage without me," he drawled, "then you know your way out."

He was even more pleased when Lestrade sighed again.

"Will you help with the case or not?"

"If you mean solve it for you, then yes. I will."

The sound of Violet giggling wiped the smug expression off his face immediately. He huffed and turned toward her with an irritated roll of his head. She was perched on the edge of the counter now, her feet dangling over the floor and brushing the air as she cradled a steaming teacup in both hands.

"What is so funny?" He snapped.

"You." She stated it like it was a fact, with a simple shrug of her shoulders and an earnest expression.

It was… confusing to say the least. Sherlock _knew_ he was an abrasive ass, rude, and unpleasant to be around (he'd been informed of such many times), so he truly did not know what was going on at the moment. No one ever responded to him in the way which this girl did. She was laughing at him. Not in the cruel way most people tended to, but _genuinely_. She'd called him funny. Funny? Sherlock didn't think he'd been called funny once in the twenty-nine years of his life.

Either she was mad, or she was up to something. Possibly both.

His eyes narrowed as he inspected her once again. She smiled warmly and looked patiently back at him. It was the look of a teacher waiting for their student to put two and two together; she clearly knew what he was doing and that positively irritated him. He took an almost infinitesimal step toward her, staring harder and trying to deduce something more, to figure her out, but… he came up with nothing. All he saw was what he'd seen before. That and the way she was smiling at him now. Gently. Warmly. Completely calm. It was the kind of smile that never showed itself around him.

Feeling angry at himself for failing to deduce her as well as the tiniest bit uncomfortable in the presence of that smile, he turned away from her entirely. There were more pressing, more _interesting,_ matters to attend to. It was best not to engage with her. For the moment at least.

"Come on, Lestrade." He headed toward the door without sparing the other man a glance, "We have a murderer to catch."

Now focused, the familiar rush of excitement pumped through him. It was addicting, deliciously so. He'd never been able to ignore that feeling. He didn't want to. There was little else which both stimulated his mind and calmed it at the same time; quieted all the excess chatter so he could think on something of consequence _._ It was his fix, he knew, and he'd be damned if anything got in the way. Especially not the scrawny, blonde haired girl with the perplexing smile.

 _No_.He thought, nodding his head in determination. He stepped out onto the street and into the cold, breathing London in deeply as he flipped up the collar of his coat.

 _The game is on._

* * *

Violet watched her neighbor stride out of her flat with a raised brow. He spoke of murderers then bolted out of the room, the slightest pep in his step and the tiniest of grins pulling at his lips. She momentarily wondered what sort of man that made him, but Lestrade spoke before she could think on it long.

"He's a charmer, I know."

Violet giggled into her teacup at his words. She raised her eyes to see him grinning at her and she smiled back.

"I rather like him, actually." She took a sip of tea, purposefully ignoring his look of surprise.

"Well," he said, amused as he pulled his hat and gloves on, "we'll see how long that lasts, eh?"

Violet cocked her head to the side. She could tell Lestrade liked Sherlock, at least a little. He wouldn't have come asking for the man's help if he didn't. Yet, she was confused as to why he was so quick to speak ill of the consulting detective. Were they not friends? Friendships had always baffled her, but this one even more so.

"Do you not want it to last?" She asked, a small pinch between her brows showing her confusion.

"No, no, no!" Lestrade backtracked as he realized how his words must have sounded, "Don't get me wrong, it would be great if it lasts! For both yours and Sherlock's sakes, but I'd be surprised if it did, to be honest. Sherlock can be a bit… much. There's a reason he lives alone."

Violet hummed in thought. She didn't really have anything to say to that. She didn't know the man and she certainly didn't know anything about what the outcome of her living arrangements would be.

"I understand," she said eventually, smiling once again, "but only time will tell. I don't plan on moving anytime soon, so we'll see how it goes, hmm?"

Lestrade looked relieved that she wasn't upset with him. He smiled, giving her a nod as he picked the manila folder up off the table.

"I best be off. Can't let Sherlock wander too long by himself."

Violet frowned slightly, "Will he get lost?"

"No," Lestrade barked a laugh, "he just doesn't get along with strangers, is all."

"Oh…"

"It's almost like he's a grumpy old dog."

Violet snorted in laughter, to which Lestrade smiled.

"Well, I'm sure I'll be seeing you around."

Violet nodded and smiled warmly, "It was nice to meet you, Detective Inspector."

"You too, Doctor Beckett." He bowed his head like a gentleman as he headed toward the door.

"Unless you're one of my students, Violet is just fine." She corrected, making him stop and turn back to her.

"Then it's Greg for me."

"Alright, Greg it is."

Lestrade nodded his head once more, waving his hand over his head, "Let me know if you need any help with Sherlock!"

Violet shook her head in amusement, laughing lightly to herself. The men's relationship was truly confusing. She didn't say anything else to Lestrade as he left, and she soon heard him stomping up the stairs, then the door as it thudded closed behind him.

She sighed to herself, the happy smile on her face dimming. She held her teacup a little tighter. It warmed her hands, but she got more comfort in just the act of holding onto something. Solitude had always given her anxiety and her new flat wasn't helping.

The place had an overall greyness to it which lay deeper than the color of the walls, though those were grey as well. Basement flats tended to have that feature. Since she hadn't had the time to plug in her lamps, the only source of light was that which seeped in through the long window across from the door. Dust floated in the weak rays of light.

"Alright." She took a deep breath and drained the rest of her tea. It burned her tongue a little and she winced, but quickly jumped off the counter and tied her hair up in a bun on the top of her head.

The flat wasn't much, but she'd fix it up in no time.

"First thing's first though." She hurried into her room and snatched the coupons off her bed, shoving them into the back pocket of her jeans.

"Time to get rid of that 'crippling loneliness." She giggled as the words passed her lips.

Sherlock may be an odd fellow, but he wasn't wrong.

She really did want a dog.

Twenty-five minutes later found Violet in the tiny pet store only a few streets down from Baker Street. A little silver bell over the door rang as soon as she stepped in. The place smelled strongly of cardboard and rubber and the familiar odor of animals. Some would find that unpleasant, but it reminded her of her childhood home. The little farm had given her countless happy memories and she drank in the smell she knew well.

Shivering a little in the overly heated store, Violet hurried toward the back, following the sound of little yips and barks. A wide, childlike smile filled her face as soon as she saw the cages. Dogs of every size, age, and color bounced around in wide pens lining the wall.

"Hello, baby." She cooed, sticking her fingers through the bars of one of the cages. A little, scruffy looking puppy excitedly licked at her fingers. She giggled and pat its head before moving on.

She ran her hand along the bars of the cages, absentmindedly petting the dogs who approached her. Though she'd been wanting a dog for a long time, the thought of getting one was somewhat daunting. She'd never been quick at making decisions, and often found herself over-thinking almost every detail.

Perhaps that was something she and Sherlock had in common?

Coming upon one of the last cages, she stopped. She crouched down to see into it properly and immediately smiled.

A medium sized bulldog sat at the back of the cage. He was panting in a labored sort of way. His brown and white fur was patchy all around and greying near his snout, but his eyes were clear as he watched her. It was a curious sort of look, swirled in with boredom.

Lestrade's words rang in her head.

 _He's almost like a grumpy old dog._

Violet laughed out loud.

"Hey, old man." She greeted, sticking her fingers in through the bars. The dog looked at them before laying his head down on his paws with a grunt. Violet's smile widened.

"Are you lonely in here?" She watched him closely before nodding to herself, "Me too. Maybe we can help each other."

"Are you interested in Gladstone?"

Violet startled at the new voice. She spun around quickly on her heels, her hand still half in the cage as she looked up at the newcomer standing over her. A middle aged woman with heavy makeup, poofy, dyed hair, and a kind face smiled down at her.

"Sorry to scare you!" She said before pointing at the nametag on her chest, "I'm Tracey. I work here."

Violet chuckled, a little embarrassed with how she reacted.

"Hi." She winced at how strange her voice sounded, "Sorry. I scare easy."

"Who doesn't?" Tracey waved her hand dismissively in the air before crouching down next to Violet. The older woman peered into the cage, making clicking sounds with her tongue to try and get a reaction out of the bulldog. He just stared at her.

"Such a lump." She laughed, turning toward Violet, who smiled easily back.

"He seems like a sweetheart."

"Oh he is!" Tracey nodded, her eyes widening earnestly, "Just a little crabby is all."

Violet turned back to the dog. He was sitting up now, watching the women closely and grunting with every breath. It was almost like he was irritated with them for disturbing him.

"He's perfect." Violet grinned widely, first at the dog, Gladstone, who let out a loud grunt, then at Tracey, who grinned back.

A stack of paperwork, a call to Mrs. Hudson, and fifteen minutes later, Violet practically skipped out of the pet store. Gladstone trudged along behind her, now wearing a lovely blue collar with a matching leash. He wheezed as he walked, but Violet noticed how he looked around excitedly at everything they passed, his ears perked. She smiled happily and leaned down to scratch between them.

"Ready to go home, boy?"

He looked at her, wagging his bum where his tail would have been if he had one, then started waddling down the sidewalk in the direction of Baker Street. Violet tossed her head back and laughed heartily.

"We're going to have so much fun!" She said, a mischievous smile breaking out on her face.

She couldn't wait for him to meet Sherlock.


	3. Breakfast and a Song

Ever since she was young, Violet had wanted a place to call her own. Somewhere she could curl up and read. Somewhere bathed in warmth by soft glowing lamps and enough sunlight to fight the chill on a winter day. Somewhere with a fireplace crackling and twinkling as it burned sweet pine, making the whole place smell of forests far away. Somewhere that felt like home.

Baker Street, surprisingly, was giving her that simple yet most dear dream. It was quite magical, really. She felt somewhat like her own fairy godmother, bringing beauty to life with a flick of her wand. Though, in this case, her wand was a hammer.

She was surprised Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock weren't cursing her existence, what with the constant noise she was making. Not to mention the ever flowing line of plumbers, electricians, and workers trailing into her flat. Yet, despite it all, her landlady and neighbor hadn't voiced any annoyances to her. Actually, Mrs. Hudson was overjoyed. Noise, she said, meant the stinky, moldy basement flat was finally getting the face lift it desperately needed.

Sherlock was a different story. Violet hadn't seen the consulting detective in over a month. Mrs. Hudson said he tended to disappear when he was on a case, and Violet wondered what his case was at the moment. Murder perhaps? Espionage? Government secrets? Criminal plots more complex than sending a man to the stars?

She laughed to herself and shook her head. She had fanciful ideas, she knew. Sherlock's cases most likely weren't anything like that, but still… she hoped they were.

Although she hadn't seen Sherlock, she had heard him. He tended to cause a racket when he came home, if he came home at all. The first sign of his arrival was the front door slamming. Then it was the pounding footsteps up the stairs. The sound reminded her of a child's on Christmas morning, hurried and eager. There were many times she wanted to climb those stairs after him and see what had gotten him so excited, but she always chickened out about halfway up. One day she'd make it up the last few steps.

What really let her know Sherlock was home though, her favorite thing about living in Baker Street actually, was the music.

She'd first noticed it about three days after moving in. It had been a Tuesday. Her teaching day. She'd taught four classes, equalling about 430 college students and 480 minutes total. To say she was exhausted would be an understatement. At the end of the day, all she wanted was to go to sleep and dream of nothing, but the universe had other ideas.

The moment her head hit the pillow, she knew she wouldn't sleep. Three hours passed and she hated that she was right. She lay there, the sheets strewn about her as she stared at the ceiling. Gladstone snoring by her feet was the only sound until, slowly, soft violin music streamed in through the darkness. It was beautiful; the crescendos like a sunrise and the vibrato the softest of lullabies. Peace seeped through her. She felt as if she'd just woken from the sweetest dream. She fell asleep with a smile on her face.

Now, the door to the stairs leading down to her basement flat was always kept open. She made sure of it. The music travelled in better that way.

Today though, was her turn to play the music. She only did so when no one else was home. The songs felt like an extension of herself and she didn't want others to hear something so personal. That and she really loved to play everything at full volume.

The lively tunes of Russian symphonies filled her flat. Violet had just finished painting her living room. The dark yellow color stained her forearms and a significant part of the floor, but she wasn't too worried. She was getting a rug anyway. As celebration for finishing painting, Violet decided to cook in her brand new kitchen. She chopped mushrooms on the wooden countertops before tossing them into a pan on the stove. Bacon sizzled in a pan beside the first, and a stack of already made pancakes waited for her on a plate on the table.

Breakfast for dinner is always a good idea, she thought.

"Gladstone!" She spun around on one foot, her thick socks making it easy. She tossed a strip of bacon to the dog who'd been watching her every move. He caught it in one chomp. Violet giggled and spun back around, going back to cooking her eggs.

Her favorite Sergei Prokofiev piece came on just as she finished cooking. Although there were no words, she sang along, feeling downright giddy. She threw another piece of bacon to Gladstone. He grunted as he swallowed it whole. Violet smiled and, holding a plate with her eggs set neatly on top, spun around in time to the fast-paced flute melody… then immediately let out a scream and jolted backwards in surprise.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her. He stood calmly, halfway in her kitchen and halfway in the living room. His hands were clasped behind his back in that assessing manner he typically had.

"What are you doing here?" Violet demanded, one hand covering her frantically beating heart. Gladstone trudged over to the man as she shrieked. Sherlock watched him approach.

"If you were intending for a guard dog, you've chosen poorly." He observed. Gladstone plopped down right in front of his dress shoes, staring up at him in what Violet knew was a demand to be pet.

"I chose perfectly." She set her plate on the table none too gently before spinning back to Sherlock, her hands flying to settle on her hips, "Why on earth did you break into my flat?"

His eyes moved from Gladstone to her, "I didn't break in. You left both doors open and unlocked. I trespassed."

"Alright." She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, "Why did you trespass, then?"

There was a beat of silence. Sherlock watched her disinterestedly for a moment and she took him in. He looked very thin. His normally sharp cheekbones stood out even more than usual, showing shallow cheeks and sunken eyes. Even his hair looked haggard. It hung limply against his head, the dark curls dampened. Despite it all, though, he was alert. His eyes were bright as he watched her. He lifted his head then, dismissing Gladstone to address her.

"I've finished my case," He said, "and your music is too obnoxiously loud to sleep through."

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" She flew across the kitchen to where her speakers sat, turning the volume down until there was only a soft chatter. She turned back to Sherlock, wringing her hands in front of her, "I didn't know you were home. I wouldn't have played it so loud if I had."

"Spare the niceties." He responded curtly, "As long as you're quiet when I need you to be, I don't care what you do."

Violet ignored the offense rising in her chest and tightened her grip on the back of the dining room chair. She lifted an eyebrow, "And what about when I need you to be quiet?"

"I presume you'll tell me." He said, "I also presume you know I won't listen." He smiled then. It was completely and obviously sarcastic, more of a snarl than anything.

Violet blinked in surprise. She shook her head once, her lips pressed together.

"Well, in that case…" She turned back to her speakers and flipped the volume up past where it had been before. A particularly vivacious bassoon concerto filled the room. Sherlock's eyes narrowed at her. She just smiled sweetly and plopped down into a chair at the table. She started to eat then, using her fork as a baton between bites as if conducting the orchestra herself.

Suddenly, the music cut off. The flat was completely silent.

"Excuse you," Violet calmly turned to Sherlock where he stood, his hand still on the speakers. He was glaring at her. She found the whole situation quite hilarious, but glued a serious expression on her face, "I don't believe I gave you permission to touch my things."

"If you're going to act like a petulant child then I don't need permission."

"You're the one who's messing with someone else's toys." She pointed out, her tone teasing, "How am I the child?"

Sherlock growled under his breath. He spared her one glance before flipping his coat out and storming toward the door.

"If the music returns to its previous, ridiculous volume, I will come back and break the speakers."

"I'll just buy new ones!" She called after him.

"I'll break those too!" He yelled before stomping up the stairs like a tantruming elephant.

Violet listened, quite amused, as the door to the basement stairs slammed, then more thumping as he climbed the set of stairs to his own flat, and at last, his door as it banged closed.

A laugh bubbled of her on its own.

"Well, Gladstone," she smiled at the bulldog where he sat by the door, his ears perked in confusion at all the loud noises, "looks like I'll have to introduce you two some other time."

Gladstone grunted then waddled over to her. She laughed when sat by her feet underneath the table and stared up at her between her knees, begging for food. She pet him as she finished off her meal.

Ever since getting the dog, Violet had noticed a difference in herself. She was less lonely, which was the original purpose, but she was also less anxious. She didn't need to take her medication anymore and she couldn't even remember the last time she'd had a panic attack. That was a real miracle.

Taking a bite of bacon, Violet looked down. The bulldog's head was pressed against her leg as she scratched behind his ears. He was clearly enjoying the petting, but his eyes were fixed only on the bacon. Drool dripped from his mouth and onto her pants. Violet grinned.

"Here you go, you big lug." She threw the other half of the bacon to him. He ate it happily.

"Why do you have to be so cute?" She groaned, laying her forehead against the edge of the table, "You're making me feel guilty."

Sherlock had played a part in her getting the dog. She felt like she owed the man something; nothing big of course, but… something. She probably shouldn't have teased him so much and gotten on his nerves. That wasn't the best way to go about making friends, especially friends with Sherlock.

Gladstone licked her face, and she laughed, her mind now made up. With a kiss to the dog's head, she piled a plate full of bacon and pancakes, and covered it with a towel. She set that on her old tea tray along with some milk, sugar, and a teacup filled to the brim. She didn't know if Sherlock liked any of those things, but hopefully he'd appreciate the gesture. Then again... maybe not. It was worth a try though.

Violet stumbled upstairs. She had to walk fairly slowly to keep the teacup from overflowing, but eventually made it to the ground floor without spilling a single drop. Momentary pride swelled up in her, only to immediately evaporate. She stood at the base of the stairs leading to Sherlock's flat feeling incredibly nervous. Her heart was beating a mile a minute and her sweaty palms made it difficult to keep hold of the tray. Maybe she should bring Gladstone…

No. That was stupid.

"Don't be a baby." She whispered to herself. There was no reason why she couldn't just go up there and talk to him. If he didn't want the food, then fine. At least she tried.

Taking a breath to compose herself, she walked gingerly up the stairs. She passed the halfway point, further than she'd been before, then was right in front of the door. It was halfway open. She could see a little bit of light through the crack, but the flat seemed mostly dark. Curiosity overcame her nervousness and she pushed the door open with her foot.

"Sherlock?" She called gently, more than a little distracted as she took in the room.

It was a mess. An organized mess she assumed based on Sherlock's overall personality, but a mess the same. Books and papers lay strewn about the hardwood floor. Dark patterned wallpaper covered the wall to the right where a Victorian fireplace stood with two bookshelves on either side. Two well-worn armchairs were perched beside them on a large, ruby colored rug. The wall across from the door held two tall windows draped with heavy looking curtains. That explained why the room was so dark. A small table sat between the two windows. Piles and piles of papers were stacked there, looking like they might topple over any second.

"Sherlock?" She called again. This time she braved a small step into the room.

"If you're going to intrude, try your best not to step on the case files."

The deep voice made Violet jump. The china on the tea tray clanked and she barely managed to keep herself from dropping the whole thing. She turned to the right where the voice had come from to see a portion of the room she hadn't seen from behind the door. Burgundy and white fleur wallpaper covered the wall. There was a bookshelf off to one side, a chair on the other, a painting of a skull on the wall, and, in the middle, Sherlock.

The tall man was laying down on a green leather couch against the wall. He barely fit. His feet pressed against the arm of the couch and he had a pillow propping his back up so his head could lay comfortably. He wore pajamas and a blue, silk dressing gown. It was the first time Violet had ever seen him out of the Belstaff, let alone out of dress clothes. She felt like she'd crossed into uncharted waters, but calmed when she noticed how human the man in front of her looked at the moment. He was almost… normal. If it weren't for his hands. They were pressed together, steepled against his lips. His face was blank and his eyes closed.

It was a thinking position, Violet realized immediately.

"I'm sorry if I'm disturbing you," she shifted from one foot to the other, still standing by the door, "but I wanted to say thank you."

Sherlock paused.

"What for?"

"For inspiring me to get a dog."

"Inspiring you?" He turned his head toward her then, his eyes on her and his steepled hands held against his cheek.

Violet shrugged, "You… deduced? Yes, you deduced it awhile ago. I'd been thinking about getting a dog, just a passing fancy really, but when you said it, I realized how true it was. So, I got a dog."

"I saw." He turned his head away and closed his eyes, his hands pressed against his lips once more.

"His name is Gladstone." Violet offered. Sherlock didn't say anything and she took a tentative step forward, "Anyway, I also wanted to apologize for teasing you earlier."

"Then get on with it." He mumbled in slight irritation, his words muffled by his fingers.

Violet didn't let his attitude stop her. She nimbly navigated through the maze of papers and books on the floor to reach Sherlock's side. The china clinked as she set the tea tray down on the short coffee table beside the couch. She saw Sherlock's eye crack open and look over at what she was doing, but she didn't let him know she saw him. Instead, she rearranged the tea tray: turning the handle of the teacup toward him, setting the dish of sugar and the saucer of milk beside that, straightening the knife and fork, and settling the bottle of syrup next to the plate of pancakes.

"Was your mother or your father American?" Sherlock asked suddenly. Violet's hand froze over the tray for a moment before she realized why he was asking.

"My mother used to make us breakfast every morning." She smiled at the detective and the memory, "She said it was the 'right way' to do breakfast. Not the way us Brits do it. Well, not me I suppose, but you get the point."

Sherlock hummed, eyeing her for another moment.

"You said 'make us breakfast'..."

Violet nodded, "My dad and me."

He hummed again, this time like he was confirming his own suspicions. His eyes narrowed for a split second before he turned away, returning to his thinking position. Violet felt like she'd been dismissed, but she stayed put. It had taken her so long to gather the courage to come up here. She wasn't going to leave so soon. She fell into the ridge-backed armchair beside the couch. Sherlock, surprisingly, didn't react. Violet wrung her hands together in her lap.

"D-Do you have any siblings?" She asked in what she hoped was a conversational manner.

"If you insist on staying, please do so quietly." Sherlock responded immediately. Nothing but his lips moved. He stayed completely still, like a statue sleeping. Violet's hands stilled on her lap.

"So, you do have siblings." She smirked when he cocked a brow and turned to her. His face was perfectly blank, but there was curiosity in his eyes.

"What makes you think so?" He asked. Violet shrugged.

"There's no logical reason to hide the fact that you don't have siblings, but there are many reasons to hide the fact that you do." Violet leaned back in her chair, smoothing her hands on her pant leg, "Plus, you seem like the little brother type. If your storming off was anything to go on."

Sherlock replied without missing a beat, "Perhaps it's simply my character."

"Perhaps it's both." Violet grinned. The consulting detective only stared.

"I thought you came here to apologize for teasing, not to do more of it."

"Oh hush." She shook her head, pushing the flash of guilt aside at his words, "I know you don't care whether or not I apologize, so don't try to make me feel bad."

Sherlock met her gaze. The blue of his irises swirled beautifully with ambers and greens. Violet forgot about chastising him, and found herself wishing she had something more interesting than her boring, brown eyes. It was one of the things she'd always disliked about hers-

Sherlock shot up and spun around into a sitting position so suddenly and so fast, Violet felt a little dizzy just watching. He shook his hands in front of him, settling the sleeves of his dressing gown down by his elbows, then snatched a piece of bacon off the plate.

"You're lucky I've just finished my case." He said, taking a large bite.

Violet shook her head in amusement and confusion, "Why is that?"

"I don't eat when I'm working." He explained, "It slows me down."

She frowned, "Why would eating slow you down?"

"My line of work requires my brain functioning at maximum capacity. I find fasting the only thing which produces the necessary drive."

"Oh…" Violet was speechless. That explained why he was so thin. Now that she was closer to him, she could see how pale he looked; his normally creamy skin was practically transparent. He was obviously malnourished.

"Actually," she clarified, "you're lucky I decided to make so much food right when you solved your case. You really need to eat something. Looks like you might keel over any second."

"You're one to talk." He gave her a pointed look as he folded his legs and moved the tea tray onto his lap.

Violet stiffened. The smile dropped off her face and she pulled her cardigan tighter around herself.

"I was sick as a child." She looked down and scratched at a stain on her jeans with her thumb nail, "Never really grew out of the sick looking phase."

She felt Sherlock's eyes on her and looked up. His eyes pierced her sharply, but she met them with an evenness which surprised her. She wondered what he saw because, after a second, he hummed and returned to cutting his pancakes. Dropping the subject. Violet breathed a sigh of relief. She was grateful he hadn't pressed her into talking more about it.

The soft chime of a clock ticking pulled her attention to the rest of the flat. There was a kitchen off to the left which she hadn't noticed before. Aged, white cabinets and a bright overhead light gave off a sterile feeling. A table sat in the middle of the room, completely cluttered with microscopes, glass slides, and various beakers filled with colored liquids.

"How'd your case go?" The words passed her lips before she could think twice. She winced. Maybe he didn't want to talk about his case. She had interrupted his nap, after all. She should probably just get out of there as soon as possible so he could sleep...

Yet, Sherlock seemed to have entirely forgotten about his need for sleep. A light sparked in his eye at the mention of his case. Violet forgot her worries and smiled.

"Doctor Macintosh was murdered." Sherlock said cryptically, stirring a bit of milk into his tea.

Violet nodded, "That's what you said the last time I saw you."

"There was a scrap of paper in his hand when his body was found." He continued like she hadn't even spoken, "Scotland Yard didn't think anything of it. Seemingly random words they said." He widened his eyes dramatically and gave a small shake of his head, "It's a wonder DI Lestrade still has a job."

Violet rolled her eyes, but Sherlock didn't notice.

"The paper, of course," he continued, "was vital to the case, as is everything Scotland Yard chooses to ignore. The handwriting was clearly done by two people. One old, the other young. Most likely related. Macintosh's office also had a chamber of brandy and a set of glasses, three of which had been used recently, so obviously there had been a meeting there on the day he died."

"Obviously." Violet smiled, laughing lightly. Sherlock eyed her and she smiled wider, wanting him to go on. He looked momentarily perplexed, but continued.

"That led me to believe there were two murders. I followed up on a couple of leads, all heading nowhere, but eventually found myself at the Cunningham Clinic where Macintosh worked. The place was typical, clean and orderly, nothing of suspect, but outside. There lay the key. A pile of medicine shipping crates. Too many for a clinic the size of the Cunningham. Someone had been ordering a surplus amount of drugs."

Violet leaned forward in her seat. Her elbows rested on her knees, her chin in her hands as she listened intently.

"I suspected illegal drug sale, of course," Sherlock waved his hand in the air, "and after some digging, discovered the clinic is run by a Thomas Cunningham alongside his son, Alec. They were incredibly suspicious when I interviewed them. I couldn't find anything tying them to anything criminal though, so I followed them. Two weeks watching their every move and I finally caught them moving a crate of oxycodone for a sale in the West end.

That of course was enough to arrest them. I photographed the exchange and alerted Lestrade who took them in. We then searched their house and found a paper with a missing corner which fit perfectly with the scrap found on Macintosh's body."

Sherlock paused then. Violet had the feeling it was for dramatic effect and her grin widened, both in amusement and intrigue. Sherlock turned his eyes to her, smirking.

"Macintosh had been blackmailing them." He said, his eyes dancing, "He found out about the drug sell and was demanding money. The Cunninghams complied, of course. That is, until Macintosh demanded too much. They then sent him the letter, saying they would meet at his house to discuss their situation. In reality, it was a ploy to murder him.

When they arrived, Macintosh offered them brandy and they all sat down in his office. Cunningham the younger poisoned his drink. The doctor noticed the altered taste, but had already taken a sip. A scuffle broke out. Macintosh threw Alec into the bookshelf, knocking down the picture frames, and Thomas took it upon himself to hold Macintosh down until he died. The elder Cunningham then carefully cleaned up the scene. He told Alec to get the note they sent which the dead man was holding. Alec tore it out of his hand, ripping the piece off which was eventually found by Scotland Yard."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Sloppy work really. They might have gotten away with it all if Alec hadn't been so brash."

He settled back into the couch, dropping his fork onto the now clean plate on his lap. There was a sort of pride rolling off him. His eyes sparked. Violet grinned.

"That's fantastic." She sighed happily, leaning back in her chair. Sherlock eyed her.

"It was." His lips turned up the slightest bit and Violet felt a rush of adventure go through her. It was second hand, but it was adventure nonetheless.

All too quickly, Sherlock turned away from her.

The adventure disappeared, snapping like a rubber band stretched too far.

Sherlock dropped the tea tray onto the coffee table in front of him and stood to his full height. Violet had to crane her neck backward to look at him.

"I'm in desperate need of sleep." He said before gliding toward the kitchen. His blue dressing gown fluttered behind him, "I'm sure you can show yourself out."

His headful of dark curls disappeared around the corner. There was the sound of a door shutting and Violet was left alone in the room. It was startlingly quiet now. She felt incredibly out of place in the dark, still strange flat, especially knowing its equally strange owner was just in the other room.

Coughing lightly, she pushed herself up out of the seat.

"That could've gone worse." She said to herself, gathering her tea tray into her arms.

It really could have. Sherlock wasn't the friendliest person, she knew, but he'd actually talked to her. He'd even eaten the food she brought for him. Based on what she knew of the man and what she'd heard about him from Lestrade, she knew that was rare. She smiled in spite of her discomfort at Sherlock's disappearance. Things had gone better than expected.

Violet grinned at the room. It wasn't so dark really, now that she looked at it twice. It was actually kind of cozy. Once she got used to the skull on the mantle and the crime scene photos on the floor, that is.

Feeling a little brazen from how things had turned out, she paused as she was leaving. She picked up a pen and a piece of blank paper from the floor. Quickly, she scribbled a note.

 _Sherlock,_

 _Please let me know when you finish another case. I'd really like to hear about it._

 _Also, if you ever want tea or food, you're welcome to come by my flat. I'd be happy to make sure you don't starve yourself._

 _Violet_

Smiling, she lay the note against his microscope in the kitchen. He would definitely find it there.

Without giving herself time to regret writing the note, she scurried out of the flat. She closed the door to 221B behind her and practically flew down both sets of stairs. Slamming her door closed, she leaned back against it. Her breaths came out in wheezes. The china on the tea tray clanked with the sharp rise and fall of her chest as she tried to calm herself.

Gladstone stared at her from where he lay on the couch. She felt silly under his gaze, which of course made her feel extra silly. He was just a dog. There was no reason to feel that way. She watched as he grunted and he lay his head down on his paws.

"I know, boy." She panted, letting her head fall back against the door, "I'm a mess."

* * *

 _AN: Hello everyone! I just wanted to tell you all how exceedingly kind your lovely words are. I didn't really expect anyone to read this, but I'm so glad my story can make a few people smile. I've just started my last semester of college and am student teaching in a fourth grade class. That means I will literally have no time, not like I had much before, but I won't be able to write for awhile. Probably not until May. I won't be abandoning this story though, so I hope you all can be patient with me! Thank you again for your kindness and I hope you're all doing well!_


	4. Too Busy

One week later, Violet sat in her almost completed living room. The only task yet to be finished was putting in the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Everything else was exactly how she'd imagined it.

Renovating had turned out to be addicting. Once she'd started, she hadn't been able to stop. It cost her plenty of sleep, but it was worth it. An introvert by nature, she'd stayed home more often than not when the place was dark and dreary. Now, it was hard to force herself to leave at all. If she didn't have Gladstone she might never venture out other than to go to work or get groceries.

Despite the joy of almost having a home, she was frustrated. Frustrated and anxious. She sat on the floor in front of her wide, plush couch. Its grey cushions were currently covered with hundreds and hundreds of essays. The white, shag rug she sat on wasn't any different. Groaning loudly, she threw down the particularly horrid composition she had been reading. She rubbed the bridge of her nose, forcing her wide framed glasses higher up on her face. There hadn't been any time to put her contacts in that morning.

"Serves me right for assigning essays in _all_ my classes," she glared at the piles surrounding her. If it was possible to drown in paper she'd have done it by now. She really should have thought this through. Her chest tightened just thinking of all the things she still had to do...

"Gladstone!" she called as she felt her throat constricting. A familiar wheezing sounded not even a second later. Violet smiled when Gladstone came into view. The pressure in her chest loosened. Gladstone trudged toward her, only to stop and stare in confusion at the papers in his way. Violet giggled.

"Hold on," she reached forward and quickly made a small pathway for him to walk through. As soon as she shoved the last stack aside, he waddled forward and laid down beside her with a grunt. Violet pet his head gently when he flopped onto her lap. Calm washed over her. She sighed contentedly.

"What do you think, boy?" she leaned her head on the couch cushion, curling her body around the lump of a dog, "Want to grade for me?"

He didn't react.

"Yeah, I didn't think so." Her eyes drooped as she sighed. She listened to the soft crackle of the fire dwindling across the room and tried to focus on anything other than the essays. Just for a few minutes.

She was just drifting to sleep when a loud bang shook the room.

Violet burst into a sitting position, eyes wide and her heart hammering in her chest. Gladstone, noticing her fear, began whining. Violet's hand ran along the floor. If she was going to fight someone off, she needed a weapon. Her hand landed on her metal fountain pen. It wasn't much, but it would do.

Now armed, she whipped her head around, loose curls flying around her as she spun. Her wide eyes landed on the person standing in her doorway. Her fear immediately dissolved into anger.

"SHERLOCK!" she flung the pen across the room, hitting the man in the chest, "Why do you keep doing this?!"

Nervousness flashed across his face for the briefest of seconds, but it was gone so fast Violet thought she'd imagined it. He straightened his shoulders. His nose rose in the air, a small smirk on his lips.

"It's far too early to be going to bed, don't you think?"

Violet huffed irritably and clenched her teeth together. She was about to give him a piece of her mind when she heard Gladstone's quiet whimpers. The bulldog had pressed himself against her leg, the hairs on his back raised. Some of Violet's anger faded. She reached down to calm him, running her hand down his back. It only took a few pets until he was quiet again.

"Still a pitiful guard dog, I see."

Violet shot him a glare.

"An adequate guard dog is supposed to maim an intruder," he explained as if she didn't fully grasp the concept, "Whining from the other side of the room doesn't exactly meet the mark."

"Yeah, I know. Thanks." Violet gave him an icy look before turning to Gladstone. "Don't listen to him, boy," she squished his face between her hands. His panting grew louder. "You're perfect."

With one more pat to the dog's head, she turned around. Her hands flew to her hips in the exact manner she remembered her mother doing to her when she'd done something naughty. The comparison was amusingly appropriate in this situation, she thought. Unfortunately, Sherlock looked exceedingly unlike how an admonished child ought to.

He stood still in the doorway, his hands nestled in the deep pockets of his Belstaff. His piercingly analytical eyes were focused on her. Violet's sweaty palms slipped awkwardly from their place on her hips. She curled her toes into the thick strands of the rug.

"So… are you going to tell me why you barged in here like a loony?" she asked. Her reprimand lacked the sternness she'd wanted when her glasses slipped down her nose. Sherlock's eyes tightened around the corners. The familiar action made Violet sigh.

"Answer my question and stop analyzing me," she irritatedly shoved her glasses back to their place.

The corner of Sherlock's lips pulled up on one side before settling back into the straight mouthed, blasé expression he usually wore. Violet sighed and rolled her eyes. She was about to demand an answer from him when he abruptly turned on his heels, marched past her and into the kitchen. She watched with a quirked brow as he began opening and closing the cabinets.

"A healthy assortment I see," he mumbled almost inaudibly when he threw open the doors of her favorite cabinet. Her indulgence cabinet as she liked to think of it. It was filled mostly with Double Deckers and Fruit Pastilles. She blushed. Tongue-tied with embarrassment, she watched him move to the next few cabinets.

"What on _earth_ are you doing?" she stuttered, confusion plainly written on her face.

"I was promised a meal." He didn't even look at her. His attention was entirely focused on the fridge. In one motion, he whipped it open and peered inside, curled his lip in disdain, then slammed it closed again. Bottles clanked from inside. Violet was sure something had spilled.

"Yes… I did promise that…" she watched in disbelief as he began rifling through her cutlery drawer, "but since when does that translate to 'please tear apart my kitchen'…?"

Sherlock didn't react to her in the least. He was currently inspecting a large, silver spoon. From the way he was acting, it had to be utterly fascinating. He held it up to the light before breathing hot air onto the metal, peering at it mere centimeters from his face, then muttering to himself and tossing it back in the drawer where he'd found it. He looked like an idiot.

Violet huffed and rolled her eyes. She turned away from him, the sounds of sliding drawers fading behind her, and walked into her bedroom. A few minutes later, she emerged, shoes on her feet, contacts replacing her glasses, and a warm coat around her shoulders.

"Come on," she called behind her, breezing through the living room and out the door. She didn't even bother to close it. He would follow… At least she hoped he would.

Luckily, she heard the door close behind her. Her anxious thoughts dissolved with a pleased smile. She bounced up the steps, his heavier footsteps following after. Without slowing, she glided out onto the street. The chill biting into her cheeks and the heavy smell of polluted air had her immediately flipping her coat collar up. She settled her hands into her pockets, snuggling into the warmth as she bounced a little on her toes.

"I know a place a few blocks down," she explained. Sherlock's dark form appeared next to her. "I hope you like Thai."

"I can stomach it," he responded quickly, "It's one of the least repugnant foods."

"So much for cultural sensitivity," she grinned up at him. His eyes darted down to hers though the rest of him remained as poised as ever. She nudged him with her elbow. "Come on, I'll eat whatever you don't."

Without a second thought, she bounded down the street. It was busy today. She gracefully weaved between people as she walked. The thud of her trainers slowed only when she noticed that Sherlock hadn't fallen into step beside her. Frowning, she spun around. Then immediately startled. Sherlock, who'd apparently been following behind her, jolted to a stop right before knocking her to the ground. Her nose brushed his coat.

"Sorry! I didn't hear you there..." She blushed and backed up a step, sheepishly trying to push some invisible hair behind her ear. He just stared at her. She tried to give him an apologetic smile, but it felt awkward on her face. Her blush deepened.

"Would you like to eat, or should we continue standing here blocking foot-traffic?"

His question and condescending tone made her face heat even more. He raised an eyebrow when she remained silent. Her eyes hit the ground.

"Sorry…" she mumbled, feeling the familiar swirl of guilt and unease churning in her gut. Sherlock huffed loudly. The cloud of his breath ruffled her hair before rising.

"Sorry doesn't answer my question," he said irritatedly, his eyes indifferently roaming the street, "The choice is between your most likely disappointing Thai restaurant, or standing here, continuing to be a public nuisance." Violet snorted, her lips pulling up momentarily. Sherlock's mouth twitched. "I, personally, already am one, that is if everyone I've interacted with up until this point is to be trusted. Usually I'd lean toward the negative, but it'd be foolish to ignore a trend."

Violet laughed out loud, her mood instantly brightening. Sherlock watched her impassively. Until now, he hadn't moved in the time they'd been standing there. His hands were neatly placed in his pockets, his posture straight and centered as he surveyed the going-ons around them. Yet, he was watching her now. Apathetically, yes, but he was looking only at her. It wasn't much but it gave him away.

"Thank you for trying to make me feel better," she said, sincerity in her eyes as she smiled softly up at him. He blinked.

"... you're welcome."

He sounded unsure, but Violet didn't mind. Her grin widened so far that she could see her cheeks. She instantly felt better. In one quick motion, she hooked her arm through Sherlock's and walked forward, gently tugging him with her.

"Now, I'm all for being a public nuisance," she said, "but I really think you need some food in you. You're looking much too thin."

He didn't say anything, but Violet didn't mind. She was too busy enjoying the now peaceful moment. The air was biting, the street loud, and the air thick, but it was a change of scenery from her apartment. She embraced it. Her eyes bright, she more securely wrapped her arm around Sherlock's. He stiffened but made no attempt to untangle himself from her. Violet took that as a good sign and continued leading the way to the restaurant.

They hadn't been walking long when the small, red and brown faced building appeared across the street. Decorative, floral curtains hung in the windows. A flickering neon sign advertised half off pad thai, illuminating the otherwise dark street in dancing streams of blue and red.

"It doesn't look like much," Violet said, reaching for the door handle, "but the best places never do."

Sherlock didn't respond. He stuck out his arm, catching the door above Violet's head and holding it open without a word. She smiled at him before entering.

"Hey, Malina," she greeted the hostess cheerily. The lanky, ebony haired teenager looked up from the massive book she had balanced on the hostess' stand.

"Violet!" the girl hurried to stand, a wide grin breaking out on her face. "How are you? I haven't seen you around here in a while!"

Violet laughed as she approached. Sherlock trailed along behind her. "I know. I've been busy with work. Papers to grade and research to do. What about you though? How's uni?"

"Don't even start," Malina groaned, rolling her head back dramatically, "I'm up to my ears in books and I can't even remember the last time I had a good night's sleep. There's just so much to remember!"

"You'd think biology would come easily to a doctor's daughter," Sherlock commented casually as he eyed the room. Malina was taken aback. The silence drew Sherlock's attention. He took one look at the girl before continuing, "It probably _would_ come easily to you if it weren't for the partying and the lazy boyfriend. No wonder your grades have slipped. It's why you're drinking after all. Also, why you got the nose ring. Trying to regain some semblance of control."

Malina was visibly shocked. Her mouth hung open, her hand raising to touch the silver stud in her nose. She looked Sherlock up and down. Violet giggled behind her hand. The sound shook Malina out of her stupor.

"Who's the twat, Vi?" the girl scowled and jerked her thumb in Sherlock's direction.

"My friend," Violet responded. She smiled reassuringly at Malina and completely missed the way Sherlock's eyes snapped up at the word _friend._ "Don't worry about him. He's just too smart for his own good."

"Hmm…" Malina spared Sherlock one, disapproving glance before turning around. She grabbed two menus from the slot behind the hostess' stand and headed toward the back of the restaurant. "Is a booth okay?"

"Perfect." Violet slid into the cream-colored seat. Sherlock did the same across from her. He took the menu Malina was offering him, opened it, scanned it once, then handed it back.

"I'll have the massaman curry and a water."

Malina scowled. She snatched the menu from him then raised her eyebrows at Violet in disbelief. Violet suppressed a giggle.

"Can I get my usual?" she asked, trying to keep the amusement out of her voice. She didn't succeed. Malina made a noise in the back of her throat before turning on her heels and stomping away, her heels clicking agitatedly. Violet would have been worried, but she knew Malina. The girl would be fine.

"Well," Violet turned to smile at the man across from her, "you made quite an impression,"

"Not an unusual one however," Sherlock leaned back, his spine somehow straightening more than it had been before.

Violet nodded, humming, "You are an acquired taste."

He raised a brow. She giggled lightly and shook her coat off her shoulders. It fell on the seat behind her. Now free, she folded her hands on the table.

"How do you do that though?" she asked.

His lips pulled up in a smirk, "It's quite easy."

"Really?" she leaned forward eagerly.

"Yes," Sherlock nodded once, his smirk growing, "Just point out the obvious and people lose their minds. Nothing is more insulting than the truth."

Violet snorted and shook her head in amusement, "That's not what I was asking, and you know it."

"Perhaps you should be more specific."

" _Perhaps_ you should stop trying to be clever."

"I'm not trying. It comes naturally."

"I'm sure it does."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and hilted his head slightly. Assessing her for the upteenth time. Violet was sure he was trying to figure out if she was making fun of him. She was, but only a little. A small smile pulled on her lips. She sat back in the booth and crossed her legs underneath her comfortably. Sherlock's brow rose minutely at the movement.

"Really though," she dropped her hands in her lap, "How do you do it?"

Sherlock eyed her for a beat before sighing. "What exactly do you want to know?"

"How do the deductions work?" she asked, her eyes growing wide with excitement.

"Other than intelligence you mean?" He smirked which made her lips turn up too.

"Intelligence alone doesn't explain the things you do," she responded without pause, "Yours is something else. Something special."

Sherlock's brows pinched minutely at the word special.

"Really!" Violet's eyes widened in earnest, "Someone who's simply intelligent couldn't manage most the things you do."

He assessed her for a moment: his lips pressed tightly together, his eyes narrowing, and a small tilt of his head. Violet raised her brows when he sat back in his chair with a sniff.

"If you wanted me to teach you, you didn't have to offer me a meal," he said, his eyes intense, "and might I suggest anywhere other than this mediocre restaurant for the next time you attempt to get information out of someone."

Violet frowned. She began twisting her hands tightly in her lap. "Why do you think I-"

"Come on," Sherlock scoffed heavily, complete with an irritated roll of his eyes, "don't try to fool me. It doesn't work."

"You're fooling yourself." The words passed Violet's lips quickly, a knee-jerk reaction.

Sherlock looked like he'd never heard anything so ridiculous. "Please. Enlighten me."

Violet's frown deepened. She was confused. Sherlock was staring at her with the most disgusted expression she'd ever seen. Like he thought she was the scum of the earth.

"I don't know what I said to upset you," she began anxiously twisting her ring around her fingers, "but I'm honestly just curious. It didn't even cross my mind that you could _teach_ me anything. I just thought you were interesting."

Her eyes lifted to land on Sherlock. He seemed frozen, almost like a statue sitting there in the booth. The only movement was the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. His disgusted expression was replaced with a totally blank one. Violet's hands stilled in her lap.

"I still think you're interesting," she said, smiling gently. His eyes flew to her. A small furrowing of his brow was his only other reaction. Otherwise, it was like he hadn't moved at all. Violet's lips pulled up even more. "So, do you want to talk, or should we sit in silence until the food gets here?"

That pulled Sherlock out of whatever world he'd gone to. He blinked a few times before swallowing. Violet watched his Adam's apple bob as he leaned back and crossed his legs underneath the table.

"What is it you want to know?" he asked like he hadn't been rendered speechless moments prior.

Violet beamed.

"I don't know," she bit her bottom lip as she tried to decide what she most wanted to ask. Her eyes lit up when she found the answer. She leaned on the table, closer to Sherlock, "How do you remember so much? When I first met you, you listed off facts like you were reading from a book."

"How do you think I do it?" he asked rather than answer her question. Instead of being irritated, she tilted her head, thinking.

"Eidetic memory?"

He looked down to pick lint off his coat sleeve. Clearly not the right answer then.

"Okay," Violet smirked, playing into his game, "Give me a hint."

His brow quirked in amusement, "You decided it wasn't intelligence on my side-"

"I said it wasn't _just_ intelligence."

"-which isn't entirely wrong. My method combines intelligence and strategy, though intelligence is still a vital part of the puzzle," he stopped picking at his sleeve and set his hands on his knee, his eyes on her again, "I employ rather ancient methods of _trickery_."

Violet's eyes grew wide, catching onto his play on words.

"The Method of Loci?" she asked. Sherlock grinned and she knew she had it. Excitement swirled happily in her mind. She laughed, "That's amazing! I've read all about the Greeks using it, and even people nowadays, but I've never heard of someone using it to the extent you do!"

Sherlock's lips turned up slightly. He looked amused. Smug, rather. Violet didn't notice or care, she was too busy being curious.

"What do you use then?" she asked, "A house? Baker street maybe?"

"A palace."

Violet's eyes sparkled, "A palace?"

"Baker street would be the practical choice," he explained, "but it's too small to hold all the information I need to keep. A palace is ideal. Large. Always expanding."

"Extravagant…" Violet gave Sherlock a knowing look. He eyed her for a moment.

"That is a perk, yes."

It was his turn to smirk. Violet laughed easily.

"I'm glad we agree," she said before tilting her head inquisitively, "How does the palace work though? Do you have different rooms for things?"

Sherlock nodded. There was a sort of prideful gleam in his eyes as he sat in front of her. His hands lifted out of his lap as he spoke, twirling gracefully in the air.

"There are many, many rooms. Some larger and some smaller," his hands separated and came together, "It depends on the quantity of information I need to keep. For example, the space for popular musicians is a closet. A very small closet. However, information pertaining to various flora is stored in a very extensive garden. The connection there is obvious. Makes it easier to access."

Violet hummed, happily absorbing all this information.

"Can you tell me who Taylor Swift is?" she asked.

"Based on my mention of musicians, I assume she falls into that category."

Violet's eyebrows rose, "But you don't know who she is otherwise?"

"Knowledge of her has not been useful in any of my cases. So, no."

A small pinch appeared between Violet's brows, "You can delete information too, then. Not just keep it. How does that work?"

Sherlock almost smiled, "I burn it."

"Burn it?" Violet couldn't help the disbelieving laugh that passed her lips.

"Yes," he nodded, "There is a rather large furnace in the basement of my mind palace. It does the trick."

A genuine burst of laughter escaped Violet this time. Her hands rose to cover her mouth as she continued to giggle. Sherlock looked a little irritated.

"What?"

Violet shook her head, dropping her hands into her lap again. "You're just- I don't know- funny! You're hilarious."

His frown deepened.

"I fail to see where my joke was."

"No, no. Not that kind of funny. Surprising funny."

He still looked confused. Violet smiled patiently, the kind of smile usually given to children when they didn't understand something.

"You keep surprising me," she explained, "and I guess that makes me laugh. I just didn't expect you to be so dramatic!"

He twisted his face like he'd just eaten a lemon. "Dramatic. I don't-"

"You burn the information you don't like in a furnace that you keep in your basement!" Violet threw her hands out, laughing again, "In a _mind palace_! A palace! If that's not dramatic, then nothing is."

The sour expression didn't leave Sherlock's face. "The palace and furnace are simply the most efficient ways to-"

"Oh, don't give me that! You could do anything you want using the Method of Loci and you chose to do a palace. Don't get me wrong. I think it's marvelous, brilliant really, but it's definitely dramatic."

Sherlock still looked miffed, but he smiled at the compliment she'd given him. He stretched his arm out of the end of the booth, looking like he was holding an invisible object. Violet frowned. She was about to ask what in the world he was doing, when Malina appeared carrying a glass of water and a dark blue tea cup.

Malina set the tea cup in front of Violet. Hot steam wafted off it, heating Violet's face and filling her nostrils with the soothing smell of jasmine.

"Here ya go, prick," Malina thrust the glass of water into Sherlock's waiting hand. He didn't appear to be bothered by her insult. He gave her a wide smile before turning away. Malina looked even more irritated than before. Violet didn't blame her. Sherlock's smile had been unnerving. It was wide and toothy, but incredibly sarcastic. Violet was reminded of an alligator.

"What else would you like to know?" He asked when Malina stomped off.

Violet stared at him a moment longer. Her mind couldn't let go of the image of his awful smile. Really, she just wanted to ask him why he'd done that, but she knew that would only cause an abrupt turn in the conversation. A turn she didn't really want to take. Right now at least.

She dropped some honey into her tea and stirred it slowly, biting her lip as she thought.

"When did you learn to do your deductions?"

"Wouldn't you rather know _how_ it works?"

Violet shook her head and licked the extra honey off her spoon, "Well you already told me about your mind palace. I suppose most of your deductions come from all the information you have stored there."

"Yes and no." Sherlock took a casual sip of his water, "My mind palace helps to an extent, but in the moment, it would take far too much time to access the information I need."

"Okay…" Violet nodded slowly, "I stand corrected then. If it's not your mind palace, then how does it work?"

"Intelligence," he grinned triumphantly.

She rolled her eyes, "Not this again…"

"When I see a person, or a place, or anything really," Sherlock continued importantly, like she hadn't even said anything, "I simply _notice._ Normal people see, but they do not observe. They see what is in front of them, but they don't take notice of it. They don't see the _importance_ of it. I, on the other hand, take note of it all. I see the pigment stains on teacher's hands, the pet hairs on a recluse's clothes. _Everything._ "

Violet stared at him a moment. He was watching her too, an arrogant lilt to his lips and a challenging glint in his eyes. The man surely had an ego to match his height. Violet shook her head and smiled. She let her back fall against the back of the booth.

"Alright," she conceded, making Sherlock's grin widen, "Let's see that intelligence in action."

"Pick someone in the room," he accepted the challenge without an ounce of hesitation, his eyes still firmly set on Violet. She grinned widely at him before turning to look over the rest of the room.

There were a couple dozen people in the room now. Middle aged couples, groups of college students, random businessmen, and a couple bunches of women on what looked like a ladies' night.

"Do him." Violet pointed to a young man on the other side of the restaurant. He was a pretty normal looking bloke. Dark hair, dark skin, work boots and jeans. He was sitting with a woman who looked to be his age, maybe a little older, but Violet noticed how she wore a wedding ring and he didn't. Though the woman was totally enraptured by the conversation, the man's eyes kept flitting nervously toward the door.

Sherlock casually tilted his head to look at where she was pointing. His eyes narrowed briefly, before he turned back to Violet. He crossed his hands in his lap, seeming to already know everything he needed to.

"Why him?" he asked.

"I want to know why he's here with a married woman," Violet said. Sherlock's impressed look had excitement fluttering in her chest. "I also want to know why he looks so nervous."

Sherlock grinned. It wasn't the alligator grin he'd given Malina, but a genuine, excited smile. Violet leaned the tiniest bit toward him.

"Well, clearly this man isn't a stranger to infidelity. His left ring finger is tanned except for the place where a ring had been. For quite some time. Not to mention the…"

Violet listened to every word he said, eyes-wide. When he was done revealing all the man's secrets, she was quick to pick another person. And another. And another.

Their food came and hours passed, but Sherlock and Violet sat in that little booth at the back of the restaurant in the middle of London. She forgot all about the mountain of essays waiting for her at her flat. She was too entranced to notice the place emptying. Sherlock too, forgot about the gnawing boredom that always came with the end of a case. He was too busy showing off to notice the black SUV sitting across the street. He was too busy experimenting with the various ways he could get Violet to laugh to notice the men sitting in the SUV, with their black suits and eyes that never left the little booth at the back of the restaurant.


	5. Paranoia

**CHAPTER 5: PARANOIA**

 _Dinner tonight? Usual time?_

 _You've asked this question three times in the past two days. Did you expect something to have changed in the ten hours and forty-two minutes since I last told you we were, indeed, having dinner? -SH_

 _Just making sure. Give you an opportunity to back out if you wanted._

 _Your overly anxious tendencies are wasting my time and running up my phone bill. -SH_

 _Shut up. Your bill is fine._

 _And stop signing your initials. It's obnoxious. I have your number saved._

 _Valiant attempt to divert the negative attention onto me. -SH_

 _You misspelled 'success'._

 _Success is subjective. Not to mention a great deceiver of the feeble minded. -SH_

 _It doesn't take a great deceiver to trick a feeble mind._

 _Also, don't be rude._

 _It's hardly any fault of mine if the truth offends you. -SH_

 _Yet the bringer of unwelcome news hath but a losing office, and his tongue sounds ever after as a sullen bell._

 _Your sentiment is worthless. Even from Shakespeare. -SH_

 _And your cavilling doesn't make you any less of a 'sullen bell'._

 _Or perhaps 'sullen foghorn' would be more appropriate to describe you._

 _Are you attempting to make a point? If so, you're failing quite spectacularly. -SH_

 _You're impossible._

 _Get the usual booth later, or I'll be cross._

 _Do try to be on time for once. -SH_

Violet shoved her phone in her pocket with a roll of her eyes. How one man could be so infuriating was beyond her. Yet, she'd be lying if she said she didn't enjoy his brusque quips, however errant they may be. Rarely did someone pique her interest as often or as entirely as Sherlock Holmes.

Although they'd only had dinner a handful of times, it had quickly become one of her favorite past times. Blame it on a lack of socialization or a sudden burst of insanity (which Malina adamantly claimed was the case), but Violet truly enjoyed Sherlock's company.

She smiled at the thought. The cold, March air didn't do anything to lessen her happiness as she walked through the park, her gloved hand on Gladstone's leash as he trudged along ahead of her. A thin fog sat in the air, making the leaf-bare trees in the distance seem like some sort of mysterious, skeletal sentinels. Though they were in a park in the center of London, there was a quietness that only came with colder weather, one absent of people but still somehow full of being. Others might consider it eerie, but Violet had always enjoyed this side of nature; the hauntingly beautiful side that made you feel no bigger than a speck in the universe. Her eyes were joyful as she walked along the dirt path, the gravel crunching under her boots.

"What do you think, boy?" She looked down at Gladstone who walked happily beside her. "Think we could stay here forever?"

His never-ceasing grunts grew louder.

Violet smiled. "Yeah, probably not. What a fantastic world that would be though, hmm?"

More grunts. A laugh bubbled out of her as she pulled on Gladstone's leash, turning down a fork in the path. The park was her favorite place in London, but Gladstone was right. She couldn't stay there, no matter how much she wanted to. Though, she did have plans with Sherlock later which made leaving just the slightest bit easier.

She'd been walking for a minute or two before she heard a stick snap behind her. The sharp sound broke the otherwise peaceful silence, echoing through the trees and fog. Usually, that wouldn't bother her, animals lived in the park after all, but something about it had the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. She spun around, her eyes scanning the trees and the path behind her as a wave of panic settled in her chest. She immediately felt ridiculous. No one was there.

"Stop it," she chastised herself under her breath, "Don't be a baby."

She took a deliberately slow breath in to calm herself, but the panic rushed back when the leaves behind her rustled softly. Gladstone's usually calm, apathetic demeanor shifted. He stood alert, his ears perked and his body tense as he stared intently at something behind her. She held tighter to his leash.

"Come on." Her voice shook as she yanked him forward, now desperate to leave. She didn't know what made him stand at attention like that, and she wasn't keen to find out. He let out a low growl when she tugged him, but quickly turned and trotted ahead to lead the way in front of her. His little legs didn't stop pumping until he had safely brought her out of the park. As soon as Violet's feet hit the pavement of the sidewalk that separated it from the busy street, her whole body relaxed. She leaned over, resting her hands on her knees as she attempted to catch her breath. Gladstone simply panted happily as he watched the endless flow of cars drive by.

After a few panic driven breaths in, Violet laughed at her own expense. She gave Gladstone a wry smile before giving the trail behind her an apprehensive glance. "Either you're as ridiculous as I am, or you just saved me from a killer."

Gladstone sniffed the air, his low wheezing getting more labored and pitiful. Violet laughed and straightened up.

"Let's get out of here. You deserve a nap and a biscuit."

Just like every time she overreacted, she pushed her anxiety to the back of her mind and walked forward. Gladstone seemed to be doing the same. Although, she wondered if he had ever really been bothered or if she'd simply riled him up with her minor freak-out. Based on the way he happily trotted beside her, it was the latter.

London's streets were far less appealing than the park. Although she loved the city, she really didn't like the noise and overall greyness of everything in it. Not to mention the absolutely abysmal drivers who somehow managed to maintain their licenses despite what she was certain had to be countless felonies. While many Londoners felt no qualms with simply crossing a street at whatever interval or manner they chose, Violet was adamant to wait patiently at the crosswalks. She'd seen too many close calls to do otherwise, and even if she wanted to, her anxiety would turn her into a puddle of mess in the street if she even attempted to cross anywhere else.

So, she stood patiently at the corner. A couple of skateboarders in oversized hoodies flew by her. Without hesitating, they made the intelligent decision to ride across the street as if a two-ton lorry wasn't hurtling toward them at 80 kilometers an hour. Luckily, they missed it, but a dark SUV with large dents in the bumper narrowly missed the second boy's skateboard. He wobbled slightly, blown by the gust of air made by the SUV passing not even a meter behind him, before righting himself and continuing on as if nothing had happened. The SUV did the same. Violet's mouth hung open.

"People are mad," she shook her head and looked at Gladstone as if he shared her disbelief. He didn't. Violet rolled her eyes, walking forward now that the crossing sign declared it safe to do so.

She'd walked a couple of blocks, following the twists and turns of the road, before her gloved-hands grew frigid. Her fingers stung, desperate for the warmth of her flat. It was only five blocks away, but it felt like miles. She picked up her pace, her head down to avoid the March wind, when she something caught her eye. It was a dented bumper. The black SUV from before.

She frowned. She was sure the car had gone in the other direction, she'd seen it. Her feet slowed on the pavement, hesitant to near the SUV for some illogical reason. Gladstone attempted to continue ahead at their earlier pace but was held back by his leash. His grunts grew louder in protest. Violet let him pull her forward.

She shook her head at her own ridiculousness as she passed the SUV. Nothing happened. Of course. She was just being paranoid.

"Maybe I need to start my meds again," she mumbled to herself.

After two lefts and a right, Violet finally arrived on Baker Street. She was eager to be inside, warm and away from anything that would rile up her paranoia. Gladstone trudged up the steps seeming just as impatient as she was.

She'd just unlocked the door, letting it swing open into the hall, when a dark mass appeared in her peripheral vision. She spared it a quick, uninterested glance, but immediately startled at the sight. A black SUV. Without another thought, she jumped into the hall, yanking Gladstone in behind her, and slammed the door shut, her shaky fingers hurrying to slide the deadbolt into place.

As soon as the metal clicked, she leaned against the door, breathing hard as she peered through the peep-hole at the street outside. She counted, one, two, three seconds… all the way to twenty, but nothing passed by, not a person, a bike, or even a stray cat, and especially not a black SUV.

A gust of air passed her lips as she let her forehead hit the door. She really needed her meds.

"What's wrong, dearie? Date gone bad?"

Violet jumped at the voice. She attempted to spin around as quickly as possible but ended up whacking her forehead on the door and getting tripped up in Gladstone's leash. She just managed to catch herself on the wall before falling on her arse.

"Mrs. Hudson!" she exclaimed, a hand on her heart. Gladstone tugged on his tangled leash as she struggled to look at the frail-looking landlady standing across from her. "I didn't know you were here!"

The older woman's painted lips pulled up in a kind smile. "Don't worry, Sherlock's made far bigger rackets before. That boy doesn't know the first thing about courtesy."

Violet laughed, feeling some of her earlier tension dissipate. Perhaps it was the warmth of the flat, or perhaps it was Mrs. Hudson's amiable nature. Violet presumed it was both.

"Don't I know it," she laughed lightly and disentangled herself from Gladstone's leash. "Sherlock's burst into my flat a couple times without being invited or announcing himself. Scared me to death."

"Oh, just shoot him next time."

Violet's head snapped up. A few loose curls fell into her face at the sudden movement, and she spluttered, moving them from her eyes to see Mrs. Hudson's perfectly calm expression. The typical, motherly look in the woman's gaze seemed out of place considering what she'd just suggested.

"W-what?" Violet asked, assuming she'd heard her landlady incorrectly. Mrs. Hudson waved her hand in the air before ambling forward in the way only ladies advanced in age do. She laid her wrinkled hand on Violet's arm.

"A good pop should put some sense into him," she said, her dark, kohl-lined eyes entirely genuine. "It's about time if you ask me. Nothing else seems to work, and believe me, I've tried it all."

Violet laughed awkwardly. "I don't doubt it."

"Good," the older woman smiled before pulling a slightly dazed Violet along with her across the hall. "Now I believe it's time for you to give me a proper tour of your flat! I've been just itching to see it, Violet."

The younger woman stumbled forward. She detected a small bit of accusation in Mrs. Hudson's tone, but she didn't really feel obligated to apologize for it.

"I certainly hope you don't hate the renovations," she said instead, suddenly nervous as she opened the door to the stairs leading to her flat.

"Nonsense!" Mrs. Hudson whacked Violet's arm kindly, "As long as that dreadful ceiling is fixed, it'll be perfect."

Violet smiled happily, immediately feeling reassured. Mrs. Hudson lead the way down the narrow stairway and into Violet's flat. The younger woman struggled to nudge Gladstone into the room and simultaneously flip the lights on.

"Oh my!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, her hands folding in front of her as she stared in awe at the room. "It's lovely! I can't believe you've done all of this in such a short time!"

Violet blushed red. She coughed lightly to herself and tugged her knitted cap off her head, wringing it in her hands.

"I'm glad you like it," she murmured, biting her lip as she looked at the flat, trying to see it for the first time as Mrs. Hudson was.

Despite being a basement flat, the room was anything but dark. The little sunlight that drifted in from the tall window shone onto the wall opposite whose dark, golden yellow color seemed to reflect the light better than a mirror. The warmth of it set the room a glow.

Dark, sturdy bookshelves lined the golden wall, floor to ceiling, from one end to the other. The shelves extended still throughout the room, on every wall. The books that couldn't find a home on a shelf were stacked neatly on side-tables or beside the couch in piles tall enough to be side-tables themselves. A library within a home. In the middle of the golden wall sat a white-bricked hearth, embers still alight from the night before.

The kitchen sat to the left, nestled through a wide, arched doorway. White cabinets hung above wooden countertops which looked healthily used. Violet considered her kitchen to be cluttered, but Mrs. Hudson saw it as simply lived in. Dishes of an assortment of patterns and colors sat out, while brass pots and pans hung on little hooks. Violet caught sight of her floral apron lying over one of the dining room chairs, a cookie dough stain easily visible from the other room. She felt her ears heat up.

"Excuse the mess!" she stuttered, rushing into the kitchen to wrap the apron up into a ball. Mrs. Hudson chuckled as Violet hurried across the flat, popping her head into her bedroom so she could throw the apron into her laundry basket.

"Isn't this quaint!"

Violet jumped at Mrs. Hudson' voice so close behind her. She spun around to see the landlady peering curiously into her bedroom.

"O-oh, thank you," she mumbled, using her foot to nudge a pile of dirty laundry closer to the laundry basket.

Mrs. Hudson ran her hand along the wrought iron bed frame before smoothing out the plush, stitch-work quilt lying on the mattress. It looked well used. Some of the stitches were coming undone and the corners were frayed.

"You're from the country, aren't you?" Mrs. Hudson asked, her painted lips pulled up on one side.

Violet's eyes flit to the quilt before returning to Mrs. Hudson. She smiled shyly back, tucking her hair behind her ear despite the fact that it wouldn't stay without a hair tie.

"I wouldn't say that," she bit her lip, "I mean, I did grow up on a farm, but it was just outside of Monmouth, so not _too_ country."

"Well that's definitely not like us Londoners!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. She nodded her head emphatically, making her short, frizzy hair bob around her head. Quite suddenly, the woman froze, an almost horrified expression filling her face. Violet reached out hesitantly, worried the woman was having some sort of episode.

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson gasped, one hand to her heart and making Violet jump. "Why, we've been living under the same roof for almost two months now, and I don't know a thing about you! What a dreadful landlady I must be!"

Violet laughed, more relieved that Mrs. Hudson wasn't having a heart attack than anything else.

"You're brilliant, Mrs. Hudson," she soothed, "Really you are."

"Well you might think so, but I certainly don't! Not until we've sat and had a proper chat over tea. It's only right."

Violet didn't even bother to argue. With a warm smile and a squeeze to her landlady's hand, she headed to the kitchen. Five minutes later found the women seated at the dining room table, a teapot between them and steaming cups of tea in both their hands.

"So, tell me about your family."

It was the question Violet knew was coming but couldn't prepare herself fast enough for. She stared down at the teacup in front of her, watching the liquid swirl as she unnecessarily stirred it with her spoon.

"Well," she started, holding the spoon a little more firmly. She made herself think of a happy memory and started telling the first one that came to mind. "My dad met my mum when they were young. She was American, you see, and was just finishing up a study abroad trip to Scotland. She wanted to spend her last week traveling, which honestly wasn't the best idea. She was awful with directions. Once got us horribly lost in a market. Had to call dad to come and find us."

"Bless," Mrs. Hudson smiled kindly which put Violet at ease. Her lips turned up as she sat back a little in her chair.

"Well," she continued, "mum got lost in Monmouth. She was supposed to be visiting the castle you see but wound up miles away after taking the wrong bus. Ended up trekking through farmland for hours in the hopes of finding the castle. Dad found her on the roadside yelling at her map, said he'd never seen anger so beautiful, but that was him. Always so ridiculous."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head with an earnest expression, "No, no! He sounds lovely. Not every day you find a man who hears you scream and still wants to talk to you after. My Frank never did, but he was a drug dealer."

"O-oh…" Violet stuttered, staring incredulously at the tiny, unimposing woman across from her. She wasn't sure what to say to that.

"But never mind me," Mrs. Hudson took a dainty sip from her teacup. "Continue your story."

Violet paused for a moment. "R-right. Well, um, dad helped mum find her way to the castle and they spent the day together. He showed her all his favorite spots, enamored her really; he was a strapping fellow after all. He had to be, working on a farm as large as the one he had, but the rest is history. They got married a year later, had me the next."

"No brothers or sisters?"

"No. Just me."

"Hmm, and what do they think of their only child living in the city? I imagine they'd be worried sick about you being so far away."

Violet's chest tightened. Her eyes lowered to her teacup once again.

"They died when I was twelve," she explained, her voice quiet. "Car accident."

"Oh, dear!" Mrs. Hudson's hand fell onto Violet's, holding her tightly yet gently. "I'm sorry."

Violet lifted her eyes to give the other woman a tight smile. "It's alright. It was a long time ago."

"True, but family's important. Nothing else can take its place."

Violet nodded absentmindedly. She tried to say something, to make the heaviness in the air go away, but she couldn't think of anything. Instead, she twirled her spoon around and around. The occasional clink of the metal against the china was the only sound in the little flat. She heard Mrs. Hudson sigh before taking a long sip of her tea.

"Did you get to stay on the farm?" she asked after a moment of silence. She hadn't said it, but Violet knew what she meant: Did she get to stay on the farm _after._

Her hand tightened over the spoon, clutching it harshly in her palm.

"Yes."

"Well that's good!" Mrs. Hudson beamed, though it sounded like she was forcing the chipper tone. "Other family came to live with you then? Who was it?"

"My aunt."

"How lovely. I had an aunt. Always wore her party hats like she was going to dinner with the queen. Didn't matter if she was going to town or waking up from a nap, always had a party hat on her head. What a mad bat she was. Wouldn't be caught without…"

Violet tried to listen. She really did, but no matter how many times she attempted to focus, her mind kept drifting. If someone else were watching her at the moment, they'd think she were daydreaming. She wished that were it.

Loud noises filled her head. A door banging loud enough to shake walls. A woman screaming curses. Plates shattering against the floor. A boy's maniacal laughter.

The hairs on her arms stood up as the thoughts accelerated in her head.

Then, the noise was in the room.

The door to her flat was slammed open. Violet jumped. She spun around quickly, spilling her tea all over the table. Mrs. Hudson shrieked. Startled, her teacup flew out of her hands and shattered on the floor.

"Sherlock!" she screamed, both hands on her heart as she gave the man in the doorway a chastising glare. "What's the matter with you!?"

Although Violet was wondering the same thing, she couldn't formulate any words. Her chest was tightening further and further by the second, her heart rate spiking with each breath she took. She knew if she didn't get control of herself soon, she might just lose it.

"Stop whinging, Mrs. Hudson. It doesn't suit you." Sherlock's condescending tone did nothing to soothe Violet. Even less when he stepped into the room. Violet's eyes widened. Although the man was wearing his typical suit and Belstaff coat, his clothes and person were splattered with blood. The crimson droplets littered his cheeks, standing out quite obviously on his porcelain skin and starch white button down. Violet's breathing became more rapid.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, jumping to her feet with obvious worry.

"Other than the fact that Lestrade refused to let me continue my experiments in the lab, I'm perfectly fine."

"Oh, I don't believe you!" Mrs. Hudson scurried forward, busying herself with looking Sherlock over. The man, however, stood still as a statue, his hands folded behind his back like they would be any other day. Violet tried to focus on the pair, on anything other than the way her body was becoming more and more tense with each shallow breath she attempted to take. Her eyes met Sherlock's for a brief moment before he spun out of Mrs. Hudson's fusing hands.

"I've found a case," he announced, striding across the room. His voice grew quiet then loud again as he entered and exited Violet's bedroom. "A double homicide north of Brixton. Couple found dead in their flat, both shot through the chest. No murder weapon, no murderer found. Doors locked from the inside. Lestrade practically begged me to take a look."

He came to stand beside Violet at the end of his speech. She glanced up at him, her hands curling tightly over the seat of her chair. Her panicked, brown eyes met his apathetic, blue ones. She glimpsed that calculating look of his before he grabbed her wrist and thrust something into her hands, wrapping her finger to hold it more securely. Confused and still struggling to calm her panic, she looked down only to see her worn down copy of _Great Expectations_.

Before she could question him, Sherlock slipped an elegant finger between the most dog-eared pages, opening the book to Chapter 29. Her favorite part.

 _How did he know?_ She wondered to herself.

"Breathe," he ordered, pulling her attention to him. He tapped the page with his finger. "Read. You'll be fine after… three pages I presume."

Then, he walked away. Violet stared after him, wanting to question him, but her chest tightened, and she quickly spun back around, her eyes devouring the pages like her life depended on. She tried to focus on the words and her breathing at the same time. Her body was rigid, but she felt her muscles calm as she read the first page. By the second, her head felt clearer. She finally took slow, intentionally deep breaths right as she finished the third page.

"Three pages as predicted."

Sherlock's voice should've startled her, but it only made her smile. She carefully dog-eared the page for what had to be the hundredth time. Her hands held the book gently in her lap as she turned her face toward the tall man beside her.

"Thank you, Sherlock," she smiled gently, her eyes crinkling like they always did when she smiled genuinely. He barely even blinked.

"Lestrade expects me at the crime scene in…" His eyes flit to the clock hanging above her stove before moving back to her, "twenty minutes. If we catch a cabbie on the street in the next two, then we'll only be four minutes late."

Violet frowned. "We?"

"Yes. Since dinner is no longer an option, this is the only viable alternative. Unless you'd rather call off any sort of social interaction for the evening, which, by the way, wouldn't bother me in the least."

"Right," Violet nodded, "You don't eat when on a case."

'No." He stared at her. Violet knew he was simply waiting for her response, but the intensity of his gaze and the rigidity of his posture made the moment slightly awkward. At least, it would have if she wasn't so relieved not to be having a panic attack anymore.

"Will I have to see the bodies?" she asked, not wanting a repeat of the last five minutes.

"Bring the book. You'll be fine."

She held it tighter in her hands. "Promise?"

A small frown appeared between his brows. "How would a promise of mine impact the chemical and nervous activity of your brain?"

"He promises," Mrs. Hudson appeared from the doorway with a strict glance at Sherlock. He was unmoved, making Mrs. Hudson shake her head in exasperation. She strut across the room to give Violet's hand a motherly squeeze then began tidying up the table. "Now go. It's about time you had some fun."

Sherlock grinned wide, excitement practically pulsating from him. The absurdity of the situation was not lost on Violet. Mrs. Hudson just told her, or him, she wasn't really sure which, to have _fun_ at a crime scene, which in turn caused her flatmate to give his equivalent to jumping for joy. It was unnatural, yet, for some reason, she didn't mind it.

"Alright," she stood, holding her book to her chest with both hands. Turning to Sherlock, she smiled. "Looks like we only have about thirty seconds to catch that cabbie."

His bow-shaped lips turned up in the most genuine smile she'd ever seen from him. He flipped up the collar of his Belstaff. The dark material brushed his cheekbones as he spun around, Violet on his heels, as he called out, his deep voice echoing up the stairwell, "The game is on!"

* * *

 _AN: I finally wrote another chapter! Woo-hoo! I know it took forever. I'm a middle school English teacher at a new job, so my life is insanely hectic right now. Thank all of you for your patience and just general goodness! I'll do my very best not to make you wait so long for the next chapter, but I can't promise anything. Happy Thanksgiving to those of you America, and Happy Thanksgiving to those of you not in America. Have a wonderful week everyone!_


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